


Days of Sin

by undun



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:03:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undun/pseuds/undun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes continued, “You do admit, do you not, that as great a friendship as we share indicates an abiding love?”</p><p>He had me there; I oft confessed it to the public through my reports on his cases – perhaps not those precise words, but honesty would not allow me to quibble on a matter of semantics. Instead, I nodded dumbly in agreement.</p><p>“Well then,” he stood and spread his hands towards me like an impresario, “There you have it, Watson; my offer to expand our friendship to incorporate the physical delights of the body.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Perversion, what perversion? A discussion of modern morality in the time of Queen Victoria.

  
_Take nothing on its looks; take everything on evidence. There's no better rule._  
Charles Dickens

Part 1

  
It had been some days since the demise of that late and most unlamented of men, Charles Augustus Milverton – the master blackmailer responsible for so much human tragedy. Holmes’ eyes had taken on a distressingly haunted look, his mien reflecting a downward turn in his mood that I observed with apprehension, knowing as I did his tendency to look towards the use of unhealthy pharmaceuticals when his mind lacked the distraction of a case. As yet, nothing sufficiently interesting had arrived at our door to engage his attention and I was beginning to hunt for any topic of conversation that might bring his thoughts back to myself and the room around us, and keep him from resorting to his hypodermic, hidden – as he thought – under his clothing in the third drawer in his bedroom.  
  
“What is it that has you so distracted tonight, Holmes?” I asked, flipping an old newspaper from the chair to the occasional table so that I might sit and light my pipe.  
  
“Hmm?” Holmes turned from his position at the window. He had taken to gazing out at the bustling populace for long minutes at a time. “Oh, I’m not so distracted as you might think, my dear Watson. Though, it is true that I have been ruminating on a rare subject of late.”  
  
I pulled a golf tee out of my pocket to use in tamping down the tobacco in the bowl of my pipe. “Oh? And what might that subject be, pray tell?” I asked, “I have seen you in a quite a serious mood these past few days. Is it your faux engagement to Milverton’s servant that has you so boxed up?” I lit a match and pulled on the stem of my pipe, drawing the fragrant smoke deeply. I peered at Holmes through the resulting cloud. He waved an expressive hand, wordlessly dismissing my attempt at an explanation. “No? What then?”  
  
In answer Holmes moved towards me and retrieved the newspaper from the table, showing me the front page with its headline; the death of Colonel Dorking. I blinked and stared – what was the significance of the article? We had seen it weeks before, the same day we had received the Colonel’s posthumous letter. “You have been thinking on the Colonel’s suicide?” I asked, feeling quite baffled. Holmes was in no way a religious man, preferring the cool detachment of logic and rational thought; it was unlike him to ponder such things for very long. I admit that I began to feel some alarm at the turn of his thoughts, and had gazed up to examine him more carefully as he stood there, for he may not be dwelling on the Colonal’s immortal soul at all; he may be dwelling on the effectiveness of the Colonel’s suicide on ending his worldly suffering – the man’s double life and its inevitable conflicts and strain. Holmes had endured his own strains and personal burdens over his career, what if he saw suicide as his path to peace? His grey eyes looked darker than usual in his pale, drawn face.  
  
Holmes sighed and dropped the newspaper back onto the table. He dropped into the armchair opposite with his usual careless grace of movement. “I have been contemplating the  _reason_  for his suicide, Watson.”  
  
“Ah,” I nodded, “his secret perversions.” I drew a long breath on my pipe, closing my eyes to better savour the taste. “Poor beggar.”  
  
I was conscious of Holmes making an impatient noise and opened my eyes to see him drawing himself upright in his chair to stare at me. “And who precisely tells us what is perversion and what is decency?” he queried impatiently. “You are a medical man – where is the perversion in one man loving another? Do not,” he heaved a breath, “tell me that it is unnatural! Or an  _effect_  of our industrial age. Or overcrowding of the city, or the end of morality! Or…” he waved violently, “a lack of religious observance!” He slapped his hands down on the arms of his chair, staring at the flames in the fireplace. “I’ll not have it, Watson,” he added.  
  
“Well,” I sputtered, wondering how best to respond to Holmes’ passionate tirade. It is always best to approach things logically with him, however, and from long habit I fell back on that now. “Surely it is unnatural conduct, Holmes? What purpose can be served, scientifically speaking, from two men engaging… ahem, in, er, sexual congress?”  
  
“Purpose!” Holmes responded irritably. “And why must love have a purpose?”  
  
“You speak as if these degenerates have real feelings for each other!” I exclaimed.  
  
“And you contend that they do not? Based on what evidence, Watson?”  
  
I was confounded. “It is common knowledge, is it not, that they congregate simply in order to satisfy their base urges?”  
  
“As do men with women, Watson! This simply won’t do! Why do these  _degenerates_ , as you call them, invite derision at best and imprisonment at worst while the authorities turn their gaze away from child prostitutes sold into service by their parents?”  
  
I shifted in my chair. Holmes was touching on some of our nation’s worst hypocrisy, and his arguments rang true. Still, men should not lie with each other – I knew it was wrong, but I could not answer him in a way that he would accept as a rational response. My thoughts began to circle the subject, looking for a way forward. “Perhaps it is a matter of physical suitability then. The act of penetration with another male is undoubtedly painful and dangerous.” I smiled gently at Holmes as I said this; my former discomfort in discussing such a subject had evaporated with my certainty that I had made the best case for my opinion.  
  
“Why must one penetrate another? There are many ways to achieve sexual satisfaction, are there not? And, if they should choose to partake in penetrative acts, surely both parties would find it pleasurable rather than painful, else why would one submit to it?”  
  
“I confess I am no expert, Holmes,” I said at last, my confidence leeching away. “Perhaps the perversion runs to enjoying the experience of pain as well?” I had met such a patient on one occasion. The poor woman had taken to self-mutilation.  
  
He waved a hand in my direction. “An entirely different matter, Watson – do not confuse the two, as a nervous system primed for the enjoyment of pain may occur in any circumstance.”  
  
I nodded, conceding the point. It seemed Holmes had me surrounded with both passion and logic. I could think of no further arguments and I told him so.  
  
“Watson, it is very good of you to see reason to the extent that you have persuaded yourself to change a long-held opinion on an act you have seen described everywhere as evil and base.”  
  
“Oh, I haven’t changed my opinion, Holmes,” I hastened to correct him. “I have simply given up trying to construct a thoroughly rational defence of it.”  
  
Holmes’ smile faded. “What is your stated opinion, Watson? I admit I have forgotten its particulars.”  
  
“That the act of penetration of one male by another is a perversion; dangerous and painful for the passive male, and, I’ve no doubt, unhygienic for the active male,” I said in reply. My pipe had given its last gasp, and I leaned forward to tap out the dottle on the grate.  
  
“Hmm, aside from the matter of hygiene – which might be effectively addressed by a cleansing treatment, yes? – I am moderately certain that I could disprove your premise.”  
  
I sat back and looked at him, my confusion surely showing. “What do you mean, Holmes?”  
  
“I mean, dear Watson, that I am confident that were I to commit the act of sodomy upon your person that you would find it pleasurable,” he answered with a sublime expression of innocent satisfaction.  
  
“You… What the– ” I could not form a sentence of any sort at that moment.  
  
Holmes continued, “You do admit, do you not, that as great a friendship as we share indicates an abiding love?”  
  
He had me there; I oft confessed it to the public through my reports on his cases – perhaps not those precise words, but honesty would not allow me to quibble on a matter of semantics. Instead, I nodded dumbly in agreement.  
  
“Well then,” he stood and spread his hands towards me like an impresario, “There you have it, Watson; my offer to expand our friendship to incorporate the physical delights of the body.”  
  
“Holmes,” I managed to gasp, “It’s illegal!” I looked at the door in reflex, assuring myself it was closed and our conversation perfectly private.  
  
“Ah, my dear fellow, so was our act of breaking into Milverton’s house and destroying his ‘property’!”  
  
I was thoroughly demolished. “You might remember that I said I did not like it,” I responded in feeble defence.  
  
“Hm-hm. I should change that for you, Watson.”  
  
My mind spun as I allowed myself to picture such an abhorrent act. The oddest thing happened as I saw Holmes naked in my inner eye…  
  
\--------------------

end part 1


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Aside from your good self, I have had no very close friends at all. I lack the knack, Watson!”

  
_Beauty is truth, and truth is beauty._  
John Keats

Part 2

 

I found the very fact that I was able to picture Holmes in every detail, accurate to the very last hair on the head of that man who stood in front of me, to be as astonishing as it was disturbing. What business had I in memorising such inconsequential (yet highly private) trivia? I could only hope it was symptomatic of my profession rather than telling of a tendency towards obsession on my part.  
  
After a minute or two, which seemed as long as an hour to my perception, teeming as it did with such rapid ideas and impossibilities, I said to Holmes, “I’m sure I could never do such a thing, my friend. Even feeling that affection for you that I do, the act which you describe is foreign and distasteful to me!”  
  
Holmes arose from his chair and moved towards the window and its twilight scenery. “Ah, yes – indeed it must seem so. I do forget, Watson, that you have experienced more of the tender affections of the fairer sex than I have; an achievement that is not difficult, since I have had no such contact myself.”  
  
The revelation shocked me. “None whatsoever, Holmes?”  
  
“None.” His back was turned to me now, his posture communicating an aura of aloofness that was at odds with his confession. I had no doubt that his natural reticence was in conflict with his desire to reveal his deepest and most personal details to me. I felt humbled by his confidences and my dismay at his proposal began to wane as I realised that Holmes must be, at some level, innocent of the consequences of what he was advocating to me.  
  
“Aside from your good self, I have had no very close friends at all. I lack the knack, Watson!” he announced, whirling and pointing at me. “You, on the other hand, have a naturally affectionate nature,” he took slow steps towards my chair, “with a sympathetic heart and an understanding for the suffering of others,” he ended in a soft voice. He was quite close now, less than half an arm’s length from my chair, and I watched transfixed as he lifted his hand towards me and gently stroked the side of my face.  
  
I kept my gaze fixed on him, watching his expression intently. It was difficult to do, since I had an instinctive urge to close my eyes and turn my cheek into his palm. His eyes still looked dark to me, but his colour appeared warmer and I perceived the faint shine of perspiration on his high forehead. Too soon, it seemed to me, his hand fell away from my face leaving me feeling a chill where there had been a shocking warmth.  
  
“You were right, though, to bring the subject of my fraudulent engagement into our discussion earlier, Watson,” Holmes said, sighing and dropping once more into the chair facing mine.  
  
“What do you mean?” The change of subject made my head fairly throb in confusion. I felt like the very dimmest of students in the lowest grade.  
  
“Aggie was…  _is_  the warmest and most unaffected creature. Common and honest,” Holmes stated with a smile, looking into the flames of the fireplace. The light warmed his expression as well as his complexion.  
  
I have to confess that hearing him talk about the housemaid in such approving terms gave me a feeling of compression in my breast. I almost gasped, but took a breath and gave no sign of my reaction. “You do have real feelings for the woman then?”  
  
His eyes turned to me. “She touched me, Watson. With no hint of self-consciousness she embraced me, kissed me, may have even loved me to a small extent. I did not know how to respond – and a part of me strived to respond; that unthinking, animalistic part which would cleave to any who showed me simple physical affection.”  
  
With this statement I began to see how very vulnerable my friend was to a chance encounter with anyone who might approach him with warmth and intimacy. He would surely never open to someone with wicked or immoral intentions, and was well able to identify such persons, but to honest and sincere attachment? I shuddered a little at the possible outcome of such an encounter; he had come very close indeed to throwing over his career and reputation.  
  
“Did you imagine yourself with her, Holmes? Did you go as far as that?”  
  
He shook his head slowly. “No, I could not think of it beyond a certain point. You see, when I was most moved it was not her I was thinking of; in fact, I had to turn away from her for fear I would utter the wrong name.”  
  
My heart began to beat violently enough that I was conscious of its rhythm in my chest. I opened my mouth to ask the obvious question, but Holmes had already read it on my face.  
  
“Yes, your name, Watson.”  
  
I jerked my head in an awkward acknowledgement of his answer. I had been as horrified at the thought that it would be another name as I had been that it would be mine. The relief that I felt seemed inexplicable; why should I feel it if I had such a dread of his answer?  
  
Trying to think my way through the tangle of unexpected emotions was an exhausting experience!  
  
“You have no response to my confession?” Holmes asked me, his voice conveying annoyance. I had lived with him for a long time, however; he could often mask his pain or unease with an angry tone. “Perhaps the frivolity of my proposal has misled you as to the veracity of such a feeling as I have just described.” He stared fixedly at the fireplace, his expression as cold now as it had been warm a moment ago.  
  
“No, no, Holmes,” I hastened to correct him. “I know you, I’m sure, better than anyone living.”  
  
He turned his face towards me, one eyebrow raised.  
  
“I know that you often hide your deeper feelings behind a façade, whether bland or dramatic; you seek to protect yourself against some unexpected attack, I’ve always thought,” I told him, wary, as always, of presenting an untried theory to him.  
  
“Hmmph. Watson I must say, and I don’t mean to either flatter or demean, that you show the most astounding and blinding flashes of perception. Not often, I must add, but ever so surprising on occasion.” Holmes sighed, sounding just a little saddened to my ears, and he leaned forward to balance his elbows on his knees. “My only fears in this life, Watson, are of an intimate nature. There is really nothing else which renders me so inarticulate and stupid,” he confided, a brief quirk of his mouth expressing his self-mockery. “It is a morbid and unnatural fear, I think, and it has been impossible to overcome. I avoid all contact – I  _had_  avoided all contact – until I met Aggie a few weeks ago.”  
  
I made some noise of sympathy at this time, hoping he would continue talking – it was more than he had ever said about himself in all our time together.  
  
“In temperament you are so much my opposite, Watson. I have watched you for years, observed your interactions with the people around us; your ability to react with feeling and caring to those in difficulties… and I have also seen you when you are taken with a member of the other sex.” Holmes tipped his head upwards, regarding me with half-closed eyes.  
  
I cleared my throat, for some reason feeling a thread of unease making its way along my spine. I raised my eyebrows. “Yes, Holmes? Is there a point to be made?”  
  
“Indeed, Watson. You see, those very same traits I have seen when I have observed your physical attraction to a female of our acquaintance have been in evidence recently; only not in a lady’s presence, in mine.”  
  
I gasped and dropped my pipe.  
  
\-----------------------end part 2


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, my friend – I have been reading some recent work in the field of neurotic medicine; a very clever fellow called Freud has been expounding on some theories regarding the subconscious mind. I have found it very enlightening, particularly in regard to my own thought processes.”

    

_The basis of optimism is sheer terror._  
Oscar Wilde

Part 3

  
Holmes bent and retrieved my pipe, placing it back into my hand where I gripped it as hard as I could, not trusting my numbed fingers.  
  
“There, I have shocked you again, Watson. It is very bad of me!”  
  
“I cannot dispute that, Holmes, really!” I finally responded. “What you say is certainly not true; I have had no such designs on you, I can assure you,” I stated emphatically. I looked down to see my fingertips whitening on the still-hot bowl of my pipe – I should do myself an injury if I did not let go. Holmes had resumed his chair and I stood to place my pipe on the mantle. I had the oddest sensation in my extremities, as if my feet could not quite reach the floor, and my head would bump the ceiling at any moment.  
  
“Watson, you don’t look well, my friend,” said he.  
  
“Small wonder when you see fit to make such accusations against me! I’m not a sodomite!” I felt angry, or perhaps it was hurt, or embarrassment; it was all the same to me.  
  
“My dear man, I never said that. Please – do not go on so!” Holmes said in a plaintive voice. “After all our time together, would you now see me as someone who throws out libellous statements, especially to a friend – to the very best of his friends?”  
  
I stood facing the mantle, avoiding his eyes and allowing the fire to heat my suddenly cold body. My heart had slowed a little and I saw that I had perhaps over reacted to Holmes words. “What is it you mean then? You say that you have had desirous thoughts about me,” I paused to take a deep breath, still aghast at the notion, then, “and further, you intimate that I have been having the very same thoughts about you!”  
  
“I suppose that is a very general way of putting it, but, Watson, I don’t believe that you’ve been aware of your own feelings in the matter.”  
  
I turned at that, wondering what the devil he meant by such a contradictory claim. I spread my arms then dropped them to my side, words escaping me and leaving only that gesture of frustration to communicate with him.  
  
“Oh, my friend – I have been reading some recent work in the field of neurotic medicine; a very clever fellow called Freud has been expounding on some theories regarding the  _sub_ conscious mind. I have found it very enlightening, particularly in regard to my own thought processes.”  
  
“I have heard of Freud. He was partly responsible for discovering the efficacy of using cocaine in eye surgery,” I offered, wondering where this babble of neuroses was leading.  
  
“Yes, I recall some mention of that as well. But I feel his insights into our murkier state of consciousness is where he really breaks new ground. I tell you, it is fascinating, Watson!”  
  
“But I really don’t see how any of it applies to me, Holmes.”  
  
“Of course, that is because you do not see, or even feel, your attraction to me with your conscious mind, Watson.  _This_  mind, or state, that you are in this very moment, that is. However, it is my contention that your  _unconscious_  mind state, what Freud calls the Subconscious, knows and feels this desire.”  
  
“Preposterous! I would know my own mind, I think!”  
  
“So we have always thought, Watson. But as Freud describes it there is a wealth of emotions and, oftentimes, fears that are secluded behind the protective walls of our unconsciousness. However, sometimes there are ways to discern these hidden feelings, such thoughts and emotions that the conscious mind state will not permit to be known, much less expressed.”  
  
“Such as,” I challenged him.  
  
“I will begin with my own case, where it was no longer possible to ignore such long-withheld information. It was not a desperate surprise to me when I felt your name about to escape my lips whilst in the throes of arousal with Aggie. I feel that I may have been aware of those desires while sleeping, possibly for some time. My state of physical excitement when Aggie was with me allowed my hidden feelings to surface, so to speak, from the depths of my unconscious mind.”  
  
The thought of Holmes dreaming about myself, night after night, made my legs quite weak and I staggered towards my chair once more. Seeing my distress Holmes leapt up to give me his arm. I clung to him as he stood there, making no move to sit, though the chair was now positioned behind me. My eyes fixed on his face – he still looked the same as he’d always done; pale, and – for the moment – intense and excitable. Everything else had changed around him; me, the world, this very room looked different to me. If I were to look in the mirror right then, whom would I see?  
  
“And in your case, Watson,” he continued while we gripped each other’s arms, “your complexion grows a shade ruddier when I greet you each morning; I have observed the pulse in your neck speed up when I sit next to you at the breakfast table. I have seen – and forgive me for this, dear friend – your physical excitement before you have managed to turn away to adjust your clothing, or lay a serviette in your lap.”  
  
“Holmes,” I said weakly, leaning on him even more.  
  
“Watson. John,” he whispered.  
  
“I must go,” I said, and slipped out of his grasp, moving as quickly as I could to the doorway and up the stairs to my room. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, my breath coming in short, rapid bursts – as if I had run ten miles in full battle kit; my lungs burned.  
  
“I’m not a sodomite,” I whispered. My hands shook as I held a match to the lantern.  
  
But why could men not love men? I well knew of the ancient Greek custom, a custom that was not only tolerated, but encouraged in that society. Of course, they had been Godless heathens, without the guidance of the Church to show them that their acts were sinful. I was not such a follower of scripture though; was religion the only check on such unnatural desire? What other compelling reasons could there be? Yes, it was unlawful – but the law had surely followed religious tradition on this and many other, quite irrational, ideas about social conduct. That women were nought but men’s chattel being merely one example. Suffragettes had the right of it, I thought; however strident and annoying the hoydens were en masse, their cause was essentially just.  
  
I smiled to think what Holmes would say to my sentiments on that matter – and in thinking of Holmes I was aware as never before that my face flushed with heat, that my breathing once more sped up. And, most galling, I was aware of my own physical response; the pressing inside my trousers. “My God,” I gasped, “he’s right.”  
  
As if I actually needed this evidence of my own feelings when I had been panting against the door of my bedroom attempting a moral deconstruction of an ages-held taboo. I had still not reconciled the acceptability of men acting on their desires for each other, however much I had sympathised with Mr. Wilde – a man who could not bring himself to lie about his nature to save himself must be deserving of some respect, even if he be found guilty of perversion – I could not shake my misgivings; my fears.  
  
I suppose, at the end of it, I was afraid of my own feelings of desire for Holmes; of the acts that those feelings might prompt me to commit. Perhaps that fellow Freud knew the truth of it. I should seek out his work at the medical library and find out what I could about this unconscious theory.  
  
For now, though, the problem was what to say to Holmes. I could still feel his hard fingers gripping my arm – there would no doubt be bruises in the morning. I closed my eyes and remembered his whisper, ‘John’; one of the very few times he has used my Christian name – the thrill of hearing it on his lips!  
  
I shook myself and dragged a hand through my hair. I was too old to moon about over someone like this, most especially someone I had known for so long, and even more ridiculous that it was a  _man!_  
  
I undressed and slipped my nightshirt on. I needed a good night’s sleep to gain some ordered perspective on the situation. I hung up my clothes and turned the lamp down. I sighed and drew up the covers, settling on my back.  
  
But what of my dreams?  
  
\-----------------end part 3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stay then, Watson,” he said, almost in my ear, so close was his mouth. I stilled at once, my breath freezing.

Memory, in widow's weeds, with naked feet stands on a tombstone.  
Sir Aubrey de Vere

Part 4

 

As it turned out my foreboding was to prove reasonable, though the nature of my dream was not what I had feared it would be. There were no illicit acts of unnatural congress, unless one counted the killing of a fellow human creature as such. Yes, my dreams were filled with the scent of blood and gunpowder, the sounds of gunfire and the heavier artillery; the orders shouted by officers as they struggled to make ground and the desperate screams of their men as they fell to an overwhelming enemy force. In my dream I thrashed through the bodies, looking for any that might yet show signs of life. There were indeed living heaped among the dead, too many for me to assist; too many carrying the mark of mortal wounds that I could not heal. I started keening, my voice inaudible in the tumult of a full retreat. I had to fall back with the regiment or I would be easy prey for the enemy. It was as I turned to climb back over the bodies, weeping unknowing as I made out blackened faces whose eyes tracked my progress, that I fell forward, knocked off my feet by the bullet ripping through leather, cloth and flesh.

“Ahh!”

I sat, tangled in my bed linen, breathing like a bellows, perspiration forming a rivulet down my back.

“Dear God,” I muttered, swiping damp palms over my face. I began to shake then, feeling colder than the night air warranted. My hands gripped the blanket on my bed. I could not stay in it. Throwing back the coverings, I swung my legs to the floor, conscious of a sharp ache running through my damaged shoulder – as if my dream had brought the pain freshly to its ruined scapula.

I tugged my dressing gown on and shuffled into my worn slippers. I opened the door, intending to go downstairs to the lounge room and stir up the embers that I hoped would still be glowing in the fireplace. To my surprise I could see a ruddy light coming from the doorway. I entered the room expecting to see Holmes still awake. His bedroom door was indeed ajar, but I could see no one seated at the table or near the fire.

“Holmes?” I said softly, feeling a bit foolish at talking to an empty room.

“Hnng,” came the response from the sofa. I could now see Holmes as I peered over the back of the sofa; in his shirtsleeves, his left rolled up to expose his elbow. I recognised the signs of his drug taking and felt my innards squeeze in an admixture of concern, frustration and – oddly enough – guilt. I had left him precipitously a few hours before, not sparing a thought for how my sudden departure might be interpreted.

I gazed down at his dozing face; his usual sensitive responses were dulled by the chemicals he had injected. Normally by now he would have sprung up, possibly arming himself with a tool from the fireplace. How I hated his habit!

The gentle flickers from the fire washed across his face, his expression softened by artificial relaxation. He looked content yet he was anything but. I reached down to touch his arm. “Holmes,” I said, gently shaking his shoulder, “you should be in bed, old man.”

“Wats’n” he murmured, turning his face up towards me and blinking slowly. “It is you?”

“Of course, Holmes. Who else would it be rousing you off the sofa?”

A beatific smile cracked the alabaster of his face. “My Boswell, my biographer. My friend?”

My stomach plummeted. He had doubted my constancy. How could I have allowed it?

“Always your friend, Holmes. Always,” I replied. I walked around the edge of the sofa and reached down to him. “Now, up with you or you will be bent like a wishbone, folded up like this all night!” I hauled with my good arm and he came up easily enough. I had hefted many tall men in my career and it always surprised me at how little there was of Holmes for his height, yet I had seen numerous demonstrations of his physical strength.

“What is the time, Watson?” he asked, keeping hold of my arm as he turned towards his bedroom. The case which held his hypodermic was still on the occasional table and I bent to retrieve it for him.

“I do not know, Holmes. Somewhere about three, I should think?”

He took the case from my hand and looked at me, twin orange reflections gleaming from his shadowed eyes. “I’m sorry for it, Watson.”

He’d never apologised for the habit so directly before. I was taken aback by it and did not know how to respond. I gave his shoulder a pat. “Time for bed.”

His mouth quirked briefly at one side – so often his smiles appeared as a nervous tic – and he nodded. “Quite so.”

Although he evidently no longer needed my support, he left his hand on my shoulder as we veered around the furniture towards his bedroom. Unfortunately, he had chosen my injured shoulder and when his clasp tightened I may have flinched with some remembrance of my earlier pain, and an expectation that it would re-occur. It did not escape Holmes’ notice, despite his compromised state.

“Your shoulder pains you, Watson!” he said, lifting his hand immediately, only to return his fingers with a touch lighter than gossamer. I shivered.

“It is nothing. Just an echo of the old wound,” I assured him quickly. “I think the night air has triggered it,” I babbled nonsensically, for the room was warm due to the fire still burning in the grate. His hand had been almost hot against me and I missed the weight of it.

“You should not be up then, Watson. Go back to bed and wrap your shoulder well!”

I was tempted to laugh, so much did he sound like myself when scolding his own lack of health maintenance. “Holmes, I tell you it is insignificant.” We had reached his bedside, the covers perfectly smooth and straight from Mrs Hudson’s tidying the morning before. “Now, please get into bed. No! Take off your shoes, you impossible man!”

He lay flat on his back giggling in a most un-Holmesian way, and I did smile at that, for once not caring at further evidence of the drug in his blood stream. I leaned over and pulled at his boot, managing to lever it off his long foot with some effort. I reached for his other foot as he murmured his thanks for my services while protesting that he had no earthly need of such coddling. I snorted at his contradictions as I pulled at the remaining shoe. The angle was wrong for my right hand, and I was loath to use my left at that moment, uncertain whether it would precipitate a muscle spasm in my shoulder.

“This one… is most… stubborn!” I grunted and it slipped off suddenly, causing me to lose my balance and land heavily against – almost on top of – Holmes. The air left his lungs with a slight ‘oof’ of sound, and he began to laugh breathlessly at my clumsy attempt to right myself. His hands had a hold of my gown and I struggled like a beetle on its back. “Unhand me, you villain!” I gasped, “I can’t get up!”

“Stay then, Watson,” he said, almost in my ear, so close was his mouth. I stilled at once, my breath freezing. I could not stay. I could not go. For to do so would be to encourage Holmes’ further retreat into his drugged state. Perhaps our friendship would be tested beyond its limits?

“Holmes,” I began awkwardly…

“I shall not molest you, Watson,” he whispered, “It is too high a price for us to pay to do anything that would jeopardise this.” He squeezed a hand around my right bicep. It was all I could do not to tremble. Another set of bruises would soon be visible. He continued, “Your friendship is everything to me. You must know it.”

I took a shaking breath; my head was whirling from a lack of oxygen. “And you must know that I feel the same, Holmes,” I said, striving for normalcy of tone.

“Then stay. For I am over-warmed, and you are over-cold!” he exclaimed as I finally levered myself upright.

I looked down at him; dishevelled, his hair on end, sleeves unbuttoned – as was his collar. “Holmes, you’re still wearing your fob,” I sighed in exasperation, leaning over to remove the chain from his waistcoat. “You look like the very worst wastrel!”

His eyes followed my movements and he managed to remove his waistcoat unaided, dropping it heedlessly to the floor. “Will you stay?”

I bent to retrieve the garment. I placed it on the chair. I thought of the dream that had awakened me – of the terror and pain of that battle. I did not want to sleep alone.

“Yes.”

 

\--------end part 4


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This… this, between us, Holmes,” I began, not knowing where I would finish, “what do you make of it, truly?”

_”In philosophy, it is not the attainment of the goal that matters, it is the things that are met with by the way.”_  
Havelock Ellis

 

Part 5

 

  
“Watson, you are prodigiously heavy.”  
  
Holmes’ voice broke the thick silence of the room. The early rising tradesmen had yet to begin the clatter of the day, but dawn was not far off. I had been laying in the same position in which I had awoken; an arm and a leg draped across my bed companion, afraid that to move would wake him and just as afraid to remain in such an intimate tangle of limbs. My quandary had kept me as still as a statue, scrutinising Holmes’ face in the dim glimmer of pre-dawn light while he slept. I had no idea how long he had been aware of my regard. I shifted away from him self-consciously, while trying not to tip myself out of the bed onto the cold floor; it was not of a proportion to accommodate two fully-grown men easily.  
  
“Sorry, Holmes,” I muttered.  
  
“Merely an observation, my dear fellow,” he responded, “I did not find it at all irksome.” His dark eyes opened to meet mine with a clear gaze, last night’s dose of morphine evidently dispersed from his blood. “Quite the opposite, in fact,” he added with a quick quirk of his lips.  
  
I shifted again, looking at the closed door thinking that I should get up and retreat to my own bed, at least until the sun rose. Something kept me from rising.  
  
“You slept well?” Holmes asked, his words falling into the quiet air around us.  
  
“I did, yes,” I replied, glancing back at him. His hair was a disgrace, falling around his forehead like a pony’s shaggy forelock. There was a shadow of beard on his cheeks, giving him an even more hollowed look than usual. A quirk remained at the corner of his mouth and gave him a debauched, piratical air. Despite my mental discomfort I smiled back at him. “I did not even dream.”  
  
His eyes narrowed slightly at my words and seemed to lose their focus for a moment. “You had a dream last night, before you roused me,” he pronounced.  
  
I looked away again. I had no desire to speak of it. Let the night-time ghosts keep to their dark abode during the hours of the day; I had no wish to bring them with me into the light.  
  
“Watson. What did you dream about that woke you and sent you down to the lounge room?” Holmes asked me, in a voice which would permit no evasion. Nonetheless, I would try.  
  
“Nothing, Holmes.”  
  
“Pshaw! I’ve said it before, Watson – you could not lie if your very life depended upon it!” he exclaimed. “Now, let me guess,” he said, turning to lie upon his side and propping a hand under his head. He fastened his eyes upon me and I felt tension coil inside my gut. He brought his right hand up to rub thoughtfully at his roughened chin.  
  
My shoulder chose then to twinge and I shifted slightly to ease the angle.  
  
“Oh, my friend. Forgive me for teasing you. I see now that your dream was not of an amorous nature,” said Holmes softly.  
  
I looked back at him, startled.  
  
“I had thought, you see, that our conversation of last evening had lead you to dwell on the matter in your sleep. Instead, it seems your dreams decided to haunt you in an entirely different manner.”  
  
“What can you mean, Holmes?” I wondered aloud.  
  
“You had a nightmare rather than a dream; you saw a vision of the battlefield on which you were so sorely wounded,” said he.  
  
I gaped at him, taken aback. “I know that you should not be able to surprise me after so long,” I said, “but I confess I have no idea how you divined such a thing!”  
  
As he moved to explain his deduction to me, I held a hand up to forestall him.  
  
“Enough. Please, Holmes. It is quite enough that you know, can we not dispense with the topic now?” I asked plaintively.  
  
“Of course, Watson. My apologies to you!” he said earnestly, putting his hand out to pat me lightly on the chest. “I should not inflict myself upon you so early in the day – it is inconsiderate of me.”  
  
His hand was uncharacteristically warm, possibly a result of being so recently tucked inside the blankets. I was not entirely aware of when I had placed my own hand over his, keeping it captive against my chest. I began to stroke along the fine ridges of his metacarpals, the texture of his skin fascinating to my fingertips. I heard his quick intake of breath.  
  
“This… this, between us, Holmes,” I began, not knowing where I would finish, “what do you make of it, truly?”  
  
I felt his fingers press lightly down against my breast, the cloth of my nightshirt all that separated us.  
  
“I cannot tell you, Watson; in truth, I do not know what love is,” he replied in the softest tone and dropping his gaze to regard his captured hand. “I can only speak of the feeling I have developed for you over this long time, my friend; of how that emotion has come to invade my dreams, stealthily and steadily, prompting me to confess it you. Although, to do so I have had to resort to argument and trickery,” he concluded, his voice betraying self-scorn.  
  
“You are only human, Holmes,” I said, immediately excusing his underhanded way of introducing the subject last night.  
  
“Hah! There are many that would dispute you on that score,” he rejoined and slipped his hand from under mine to push himself to a sitting position.  
  
With an instinct I had not known existed in me, I followed him upwards.  
  
“I am a machine, the mechanism of detection, nothing more to our acquaintances than that, Watson!”  
  
“You would be so very surprised at how wrong you are, Holmes, for I tell you that is not the case, unless you count the criminal class amongst those acquaintances,” I protested, laying a hand on his forearm, “and you are certainly not a machine to me – and never mind what is written in those chronicles; it is not you to whom I am addressing myself in those accounts of our adventures.”  
  
I leaned closer, following that same instinct that had gripped me so abruptly, “Holmes,” I whispered.  
  
His eyes met mine and seemed to pull me ever closer. “Watson, John…”  
  
I had just a moment to register the pleasure of hearing my name again, daring to use his as I studied his lips.  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
His mouth tilted on one side. “Oh, that will never do, dear boy,” he murmured, and so saying, moved to cover my lips with his.  
  
  
\-------------------end part 5


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I should get dressed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see you all there... Please make sure that your reading speed is not faster than my posting speed, I'm uploading as fast as I can! (:

_Nothing in the affairs of men is worthy of great anxiety._  
Plato.

 

Part 6

  
Holmes – as I must refer to him, since he is not inclined to allow the use of his first name, in even this most intimate of circumstances – eventually pulled away from me and dropped his gaze, appearing almost somnolent as he leant back against the bed head. He said nothing as I licked my lips and took a deep breath, having briefly forgotten the necessity of such an insignificant thing as air. The taste of his tobacco was bitter on my tongue. Finally I spoke.  
  
“I should get dressed.”  
  
“Of course,” Holmes agreed. He flicked a glance at me, our eyes meeting for a second or two before we both looked away again.  
  
I could not name the emotion in that room, but it was thick, heated, and filled me with the queerest anxiety. I felt a desire to stay and continue what we had begun, warring with an equal desire to flee and forget it had ever happened. I cannot but think that Holmes was experiencing the very same conflict. I stood up and retrieved my dressing gown from his chair, pulling it over my nightshirt. I found my slippers and turned to look at Holmes again.  
  
“Perhaps we could talk later on… tonight?” I suggested carefully.  
  
Holmes looked back at me steadily, his face devoid of all expression, yet I could see the hectic pulse at his neck. He nodded his head once and dropped his gaze once more, dismissing me.  
  
“Right,” I said, moving to the door, “I shall see you then, Holmes.”  
  
I paused at the doorway; a strange reluctance to leave him gripped me, and it was with a great effort that I walked through and closed his door behind me.  
  
From there I moved as if in a dream, completing the morning rituals of cleansing, dressing and eating breakfast. Holmes did not join me at the table. My own appetite was something less than it should have been, and after a cup of strong coffee I was up and away, dodging Mrs Hudson’s aggrieved look as she removed a tray from which very little had been consumed.  
  
I had made an arrangement with a colleague some weeks previously that I would locum for his practice while he took a sabbatical for a few months, but it would be two weeks before that commitment commenced. I had therefore volunteered my services at the Army Barracks two days a week in the interim, but today I had no engagements, so I went walking.  
  
It was a fair day and the air was fresh for a change, with a strong breeze blowing the ever-present factory smoke away from the district. I had no particular place to go but as I walked I remembered what Holmes had said about that fellow Freud’s work and I thought that I should call around at St. Bartholomew’s and see what was available to read on the subject. I had a friend there who might oblige me by allowing me to borrow from any references the Hospital might have. I took a roundabout route, both to use the time, which I felt sure would drag heavily as the day passed, and to engage in some exercise in order to settle my sadly shaken mental state. I had always considered physical exertion therapeutic, at least in my own case; it had provided me with much-needed clarity on more than one occasion.  
  
As I walked my mind did indeed begin to settle and I gave up that feeling of tension that had oppressed me since that morning’s remarkable kiss. The event had awoken an urge in me that I had never expected to experience, and yet how obvious was its existence once Holmes had pointed it out to me! It had only taken his observations on the matter and the touch of his mouth to bring the dormant feelings roaring to life, as dangerous and unruly as a monster from the depths of the ocean. To add to my discomfiture I now realised that I had been as guilty of obfuscation as Holmes last night; I had not told the whole truth of my own experience on the subject of sodomist practices.  
  
I wondered if Holmes had already guessed the truth of it. He well knew of my Army career, an environment which would admit no female presence and therefore afforded no opportunities to enjoy the company of women. In such circumstances soldiers must make do as they see fit. For the majority of men that meant seeking out the services of those women who made themselves available in the towns around us, a practice that left a not insignificant number of men sick with disease. There were some soldiers, however, to whom the constant company of men was not only endurable, but preferred. The worst of it was the occasional forced attentions they inflicted on the junior soldiers, the results of which I would sometimes be called upon to treat. It was a rare thing to have those responsible brought to answer for their crimes – all too often the victim would be cowed by threats to remain silent on the matter. I did what I could, but sometimes I had wondered if I was making a bad situation worse for those hapless boys. It was these experiences, I felt, that had made me react so broadly against Holmes’ suggestions last night. I had felt a sense of desperate unease upon hearing his admission, and his further claims concerning my own behaviour.  
  
I stopped suddenly at this thought, looking about and seeing ducks skimming along the surface of a pond; I had somehow ended up in the Park. My pace must have indeed been frenetic, yet I did not feel at all winded – indeed I felt refreshed. The insight I had just been afforded brought a measure of calm to the turmoil of my thoughts. My earlier nervous excitation had been replaced with resolve and an odd sense of expectation. I sat down on a nearby bench to rest and light a cigarette.  
  
I did indeed love Holmes; that was the truth of it. I had loved him as a cherished, and incomprehensible, brother for long years – he had outlasted my all-too-short marriage. My heart gave a pang at the memory of my poor, departed Mary. I had thought that I would not love another in such a way again, how strange and unbelievable that it should happen upon me with Holmes!  
  
The situation was not ideal for us. I blew a gust of smoke into the air in frustration, realising the source of Holmes’ agitation the previous evening, now from my own perspective. We stood at the lip of a chasm that might lead to utter ruin and disaster. I thought on the example of Oscar Wilde; a clever and witty man who had died broken and alone on the continent, far from his family and his home. That must not happen to us. We must not be found guilty of incriminating behaviour. We must not be caught.  
  
There are certain advantages we had that Mr Wilde was unlucky enough not to have shared; as clever as he might have been, he’d not been Sherlock Holmes – a man who could alter his appearance dramatically in mere moments, and who could out-think all the officers currently employed on the police force.  
  
One thought gave me pause; Holmes had assisted in eliminating the threat of Milverton – a blight on the face of society if ever there was one – but what if another blackmailer should rise in his place? And what of our own risk of exposure to such a creature? I shrugged off this uneasy thought, for there was nothing to be done with such imponderables. Instead I turned in the direction of St Bart’s and, with resolution, continued my journey.  
  
I was never to make it to St. Bart’s.  
  
It emerged that whilst I had been pondering the imponderables a gas leak was in progress a few blocks away – not the poorest district, but certainly a densely populated one. I heard the explosion as I exited the Park and for a crazed moment thought that it had been a cannon blast. Screams of terror followed as the distinct sound of falling masonry reached my ears. I was already running in the direction of the blast, a soldier’s instinct taking over the sedate city doctor’s sense of self-preservation. I very quickly lost my hat, which I gave no thought to as I came to the scene of the disaster. The street had opened up, with a tear running down the middle where the gas pipe had lain under the pavement. Flames leapt up from one side of the breach and I knew that this was a further threat to the area – if the fire should spread to the buildings…  
  
That was not my task, however; there were people lying in the street unattended as others, blackened with soot, sat wavering and moaning in shock. I was distantly aware of whistles and shouts as policemen began to arrive from the surrounding streets. Meanwhile, I was clambering over remains of the road, making my way through to those unfortunate enough to have been caught closest to the explosion. A cab had been right over the top of it from what I could see, a horse’s remains scattered gruesomely over the road, causing my blood to chill until I recognised that it was not human. Of a sudden my mind shut out all distractions; I had seen a little girl’s white petticoat and fought my way through the smoke and rubble to her side.  
  
~•~•~•~•~•~•~


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hush, you noble fool,” came Holmes’ voice again.

_The awareness of our own strength makes us modest._  
Paul Cezanne

 

Part 7

  
It was apparent from the debris surrounding the small, still form that she had been a passenger in the hansom. All that remained visible of the child were her booted feet and skirts, the rest of her body lay under splintered panelling from the cab. I saw the cab driver as I reached to lever the wood off the girl; he was beyond my help, his eyes staring skyward. The panelling shifted and I caught a glimpse of the small girl underneath as I wrestled the thing off her. Now that I could see her, my heart shrank; her left arm was a ruin of flesh and bone – she was alive but, thankfully, unconscious. I would have to work quickly to stem the bleeding, she had already lost too much blood. I tore at the lass’ petticoat, frantically fashioning some strips and binding one in a tourniquet high upon her arm, close to the shoulder. I then used more linen to anchor her arm to her torso for transit. Next I felt around the back of her head, checking for any fractures before I moved to lift her slight form, awkwardly stepping over the remains of cab and pavement as I made my way out of the trench. I passed a woman feebly attempting to rise from the rubble, her face covered in blood, and moaning in distress. I could scarce hear her piteous noise against the background of shouting and weeping. The local police had caught up with me and I met one that I knew.  
  
“Doctor Watson!” he exclaimed, as if he had seen a ghost.  
  
I had barely a mouthful of air left to spare him. “Yes,” I gasped, “can you see this child to the Hospital in Cardington Street?” I asked. Wordlessly he nodded and held his arms out to take my fragile burden. I transferred her carefully into his robust arms. I gripped his shoulders.  
  
“Listen hard, man,” I began, for the life of me unable to remember his name, “she will lose her arm, but you must make certain she does  _not_  lose her life!” I shouted over the hubbub, coughing at the acrid smoke that only seemed to intensify. “You must not delay – to the Hospital, now!”  
  
I gave him a small shove and turned to make my way back to the woman I had just seen; perhaps it was the girl’s mother? I found her, though the black smoke from burning debris made it all but impossible to sense my direction. She appeared semi-conscious and I allowed my hopes to rise a little as I examined her. Apart from a vicious gash across the woman’s forehead, there appeared to be no other obvious injury. She needed stitches, but all I had at the moment was my necktie to compress the wound. I quickly wound it around her head and her eyes flickered open.  
  
“It is alright,” I said, shouting above the klaxon – the Fire Brigade had arrived. The woman’s eyes shifted to look at me, but I could see she could not focus properly; a concussion then. “Molly,” she said, though I could only tell from the shape of the word on her lips, its sound was lost to a panicked shout from behind us, louder than the rest–  
  
“Look  **out!** ”  
  
***  
  
I awoke. I thought I had awoken. I thought I had seen Holmes’ face looking down at me. Some time later I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder, running through to my arm and hand, and I heard his voice, “Have a care, Stamford! He took a bullet in that shoulder!”  
  
I may have smiled at hearing his concern. Memories came back to me in a patchwork fashion, stitching together to make up a picture. There must have been another explosion.  
  
“The woman! Where–” I coughed at length, struggling to get a breath.  
  
“Hush, you noble fool,” came Holmes’ voice again. “The woman you so chivalrously shielded from harm is now recovering at the Hospital.”  
  
“But–”  
  
“The woman’s daughter, whom you pulled from the wrecked cab, has had her arm taken off without complications and she is also recovering at the Hospital.”  
  
I blinked furiously, my eyes tearing at exposure to the air. Holmes lifted my eyelids, one at a time, dripping water into them. The water ran back across my face and into my hair. I blinked up at him, finally able to keep my eyes open, though they still stung.  
  
“You needn’t worry about your hair getting wet – it will need to be very much wetter before long; you look like a denizen of the Amazon jungle, Watson!”  
  
“Holmes,” I whispered, for my voice would not rise to any decent level, “it is good to see you!” I made to give him my hand as he sat on the side of my bed – my left arm would not budge without pain, however, so all I could do was turn my palm upwards. He looked down and recognised my intent, placing his hand in mine.  
  
“Well, I have been looking at your good self for some hours, so my feeling of strong relief at being able to do so has palled somewhat,” said Holmes dryly, the twitch at the corner of his mouth belying his affected disinterest.  
  
“How did I come to be here, in my own bed?” I asked. I had no memory beyond the aftermath of the street explosion.  
  
“I fetched you here from the Hospital myself. I owe something to our old friend Stamford for allowing me to transport you once it was obvious that you were in no immediate danger of expiring,” Holmes explained. He still held my hand, his thumb stroking along the back of my knuckles.  
  
“I ache abominably,” I remarked. Holmes pressed my hand and stood up, bending to pick up a shot glass from my table.  
  
“I have something to help ease the pain,” he said.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“Something I’ve devised myself. I might submit it to the Lancet,” he answered. I stared at him in bemusement.  
  
“Holmes, you aren’t a doctor!” I protested.  
  
“I’m a researcher!” he exclaimed in a tone of injured pride.  
  
A coughing fit took me and saved him from any further protest I might have made. I struggled to sit up and catch my breath. Holmes put down the glass and brought a handkerchief to my mouth that I might expel the fouled mucous. He rubbed my back as I leant forward, gasping for breath.  
  
“You’ve inhaled rather more smoke than is recommended, Watson. I shouldn’t be surprised if this puts you right off cigarettes!”  
  
“Holmes, I beg you – do not make me laugh!”  
  
“I’m sorry, my friend,” he said softly, stilling his hand. “You need to drink some water. Stamford gave me explicit instructions as to your care– I’m sorry that I remember none of them,” he said, his manner just short of exuberant as he poured water from the carafe into another glass. “However, it is plain to me that you do need water in order to purge the effects of that awful smoke,” he added, holding the glass to my mouth.  
  
I wrapped my right hand around his and sipped at the water, which tasted heavenly to me. I finished the glass and leant back against the pillows carefully, hoping that I would escape another coughing fit.  
  
“I’m very tired,” I said, covering a yawn. “I can’t think why.”  
  
Holmes was looking at me quizzically.  
  
“What is it?” I asked.  
  
“Dearest Watson, it is nothing. Do you sleep now and I will be close by should you have need of me.”  
  
Holmes shook out his woollen rug and sat down upon my armchair, wrapping himself up like a Red Indian from a storybook. It struck me then how close I had come to dying and leaving him alone. I shivered.  
  
“Are you cold, Watson?” Holmes asked, looking at me with a slight frown.  
  
I shook my head, though it made the room spin. “I fear that I forgot to tell you something, Holmes.”  
  
“It is not urgent, I’m sure. You will remember after some more sleep,” he said gently. He rose and crossed the few steps to my bed, looking down at me while hugging the rug around his shoulders. “Tomorrow, Watson – tomorrow you will bathe,” he announced, sniffing and raising an eyebrow.  
  
I smiled at him and closed my eyes. I remembered then what I had intended to tell him.  
  
\----------------end part 7


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His hands stroked lightly over my face – I could feel perspiration on it – but I did not have the breath to spare to explain anything.

_Who would give a law to lovers? Love is unto itself a higher law._  Boethius

 

Part 8

  
I roused at a few points through the night; enough to be aware of my aches and strains, and on one occasion awake enough to clamber out of bed and use the privy. Holmes offered his help in the task, and indeed the stairs did provide me with some challenges, but, as feeble as I felt, I would not permit him to enter the bathroom with me, placing my hand on his chest at the door and determinately closing it in his face. I heard him speaking as I relieved myself.  
  
“Watson, if you should fall in the privy it will be the Devil’s own business fetching you back out.”  
  
I slept most deeply after dawn, and upon waking discovered it to be nearly ten o’clock. I had opened my eyes to see the room full of daylight, and Holmes, looking freshly washed and dressed, pulling open the blinds.  
  
“Ah, you are awake at last, Watson!” he exclaimed, as if he had not engineered it by letting in the mid-morning light. I did not bear him any grudge, however; my mind was clear and I was ready to grapple with the new day.  
  
“Indeed. I hope you managed some sleep yourself, Holmes?” I asked, aware that he had passed the night on my chair, and had seemed to be present at my side whenever I had been tossed from the ocean of sleep to land upon the unpleasantly rocky shore of wakefulness. His face, as pale as usual, I did not mark as a symptom of fatigue, but the skin under his eyes held a purple tinge of shadow and I felt some guilt at being the reason he had not rested soundly overnight.  
  
He sniffed. “I do not require the usual amount of sleep, as you well know. I had a passable night, all in all.” He walked over to my bedside to peer at my face. “It appears you are much recovered today,” he pronounced, as certain as any qualified physician.  
  
I smiled at his self-confidence. I had the notion that there was very little on which Holmes did not feel he qualified as an authority. It was not a new notion. I expect the only chink to be found in his armour was, in fact, me.  
  
“Apart from some aches, I do feel improved from yesterday evening,” I responded. “I will now admit to a killing headache last night, and I am very much relieved that it has passed.” I pushed back the blankets and swung my legs to the side of the bed. Holmes was at my side with his hand extended before my feet had yet touched the floor.  
  
“Where are you going?” he demanded.  
  
“I wish to get up and wash. You said something on the necessity of it yesterday, if I’m not mistaken,” I replied, surprised at his objection.  
  
“Ah, yes. That is true, Watson. You do indeed reek of smoke and dust.”  
  
“Well, then.” I made a move to rise once more.  
  
“No! No, no, no,” Holmes said, pushing my right shoulder gently until I had no choice but to sit back against the pillows. “What you shall do first is eat breakfast,” he instructed, “while Mrs Hudson and I prepare you a bath.”  
  
I found I could not object to this plan; I had not eaten since breakfast the previous day, and at the mention of food I suddenly found myself feeling ravenous.  
  
“Just as you say, Holmes,” I acquiesced. “I do need the privy though.”  
  
“Again?”  
  
“You have been urging me to drink rather a lot of water, dear chap.” I coughed a little while, still finding my throat raw from smoke.  
  
Holmes helped me to descend the stairs and left me to my business. When I emerged from the bathroom, having cheerfully brushed my teeth and eliminated the sour taste that had lingered in my mouth, I found that blankets had been arranged on the sofa. The small table had been moved closer and held a covered plate and a cup full of (I inhaled deeply) freshly brewed coffee. Holmes sat in the chair opposite, drawing on his pipe.  
  
“I shall be right as rain after this, Holmes,” I remarked, sitting down and lifting the lid off the plate. Kippers, bacon and eggs – Mrs Hudson had served enough for two. I took a sip of my coffee and made to lift the fork, giving a short grunt of pain when I realised that I could not raise my left hand; my shoulder had been wrenched about during my escapade yesterday.  
  
“I took the liberty of slicing up your breakfast, Watson.”  
  
I looked down curiously, whilst rubbing my shoulder and prodding experimentally to define the lines of strain. I hadn’t noticed, since the kippers had been placed very neatly back into position, but they had been cut into bite-sized portions, as had the bacon.  
  
“That is very thoughtful of you, Holmes. Thank you.”  
  
I lost no time in dispatching my breakfast right-handed. Once I had finished, and had spent time soaking in a long-overdue bath, I felt almost a new man, apart from some residual dizziness and headache, which I ascribed to a mild concussion. I emerged from my bedroom, negotiating the stairs without help, and went into the lounge room to resume my seat on the sofa.  
  
“Watson, you can’t be dressed and out of bed!”  
  
I startled and spun around at the sound of Holmes’ pained objection. The effect was not good for my uncertain sense of balance and I fell sideways, by happy chance on the sofa rather than the floor. I panicked a little at the feeling of my gorge rising and swallowed slowly, hoping to counter the urge to vomit by keeping the peristalsis moving in its accustomed direction.  
  
“What’s this?” Holmes was on his knees by my side. “What has happened?”  
  
His hands stroked lightly over my face – I could feel perspiration on it – but I did not have the breath to spare to explain anything. I closed my eyes and concentrated my energies on not losing my breakfast all over Holmes’ vest. He was not wearing a coat. I opened my eyes again to examine him; yes, shirtsleeves, and unbuttoned cuffs. I do like to see Holmes less than perfectly dressed, though he looks quite wonderfully dashing when he is fully clothed.  
  
The sight of him had quite distracted me from my nausea and I managed to say, “Just a bit of dizziness, Holmes. Nothing to remark upon.”  
  
“You should be in bed.”  
  
His eyes seemed to bore into mine. I idly wondered if he had bothered to learn mesmerism during his protracted absence following our trip to Switzerland. I blinked and the spell was broken.  
  
“I’m quite alright, dear fellow,” I objected, struggling to sit up. Holmes helped me to sit and arranged a blanket over my knees.  
  
“You are nothing of the kind. However, it is just as well for me to have you within a visible range rather than sequestered in the attic,” he said, “You are therefore permitted to stay. For now,” he added with a narrow-eyed gaze.  
  
I shivered a little – possibly with an elevated temperature – and decided not to chide him for assuming medical authority over me with very little justification. I was perfectly capable of deciding my own treatment, after all!  
  
“It is often said that doctors make the worst patients, Watson. Pray don’t take it upon yourself to gift this clearly erroneous and unfounded old wives tale with anything approaching validity.”  
  
The damnable man could read my mind, and could be quite a masterful manipulator into the bargain.  
  
“Is there word on the explosion in today’s newspapers?” I asked, deciding not to engage with his autocratic behaviour.  
  
“Ah! There is indeed. You will find that you are quite the hero – I myself shall perish from public memory altogether, I’m sure,” he replied, gathering the papers and depositing them in my lap.  
  
“What? How should anyone know that I was even there?” My reaction to the threat of public notoriety surprised me: I did not want it – it was that simple. I looked up at Holmes to find him smirking at me in amusement. “Reassure me that you did not engineer this, Holmes!”  
  
I flicked through the papers which all featured coverage of the gas pipe explosion on the very first page. I saw with distress that there had been five fatalities. I also saw a likeness of myself staring out at me from one of the newspapers.  
  
“Dear God.”  
  
“You may not blame me for this, Watson. If anyone is to blame, it is you,” he stated calmly.  
  
Startled, I looked up. “Wha–”  
  
“It was entirely your own doing, rushing towards the catastrophe – I assume there was running involved, yes? Just so – to aid those victims stricken by the blast, somehow accomplishing this feat ahead of any of the worthy men of our Police Force.” Holmes moved to strike a match, glanced at me, and replaced his pipe on the table. “I believe it will do me good to refrain from smoking for the rest of the day,” he murmured with a small smile. He continued, “In short, my dear man, you were noticed. In particular – I believe it is mentioned in… that paper,” he tugged and slipped a copy of The Globe from my lap, “Yes; a Constable Allsop, ‘who was given the care of a sorely wounded little girl in order that Dr. Watson might return to the site of the disaster and see to the rescue of any further survivors.’ Nothing to be done, Watson; you are being hailed as quite the bravest man in London!”  
  
My friend relayed this news to me with a gleeful twist of his fine lips. Indeed, he relished my newfound fame to an unreasonable degree, Devil take him!  
  
“’Tis all fabrication. I should sue for libel.”  
  
“Not fabrication. Exaggeration, I will grant you, my dear,” Holmes retorted, his voice softer, “but I see before me a man whom  _I_  consider the very bravest man… that I have yet met. It fills me with a morbid fear that you might feel the urge to commit another act of overwhelming heroism whilst I yet live. I beg that you will await my departure from this life before attempting any such foolishness again.”  
  
“Holmes,” I whispered, overcome with a surge of feeling. I remembered that I had forgotten to say something to him in my confusion last night. “Holmes, I…”  
  
“Love me?”  
  
I gasped and, “Yes! How–?”  
  
“Your eyes, dear Watson, are the clearest, most honest I have ever seen in a grown man’s face. I have learned how to read them well over the many years of our acquaintance.”  
  
“Oh.” I looked down at my hands. I felt some chagrin that I was so easy to decipher. A man should have some secrets, after all.  
  
“Watson. John,” Holmes called my attention. He had used my name again and it thrilled me to hear it, no matter that I could not seem to return the favour.  
  
“May I kiss you again?” he asked, with pleasingly good manners.  
  
\----------end part 8


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I smiled at him helplessly. “I shall endeavour to please you in this as well as all things, Holmes,” I said, “Though it may take me some years to accomplish.”

_Let us sin then, and sin to infinity._  
Michel Foucault

 

Part 9

  
The kiss, once begun, never seemed to end. It hung in the air between us as Holmes moved to lock the door; it glimmered, stretching in an arc as Holmes undid all my efforts at dressing that morning before gracefully baring himself before my eyes. And it continued through my gentle and timid exploration of his form – one that I had perforce seen, yet never touched so intimately, or with such passionate intent.  
  
“I fear the sofa will not take much vigorous action, my dear,” Holmes stated, sounding just a little breathless.  
  
I chuckled, which unfortunately led to some coughing. Holmes helped me to sit, whereupon I felt quite foolishly self-conscious of my own physical arousal.  
  
“Nor will your good self, I imagine,” Holmes peered down at me.  
  
He wore his own body’s response to me with his usual aplomb – I would have laughed out loud if he did not look so beautiful. I admired him as I had never before.  
  
“Come, then,” he said, holding out his hand.  
  
I took his hand and stood, raising my eyebrows in question.  
  
“Ah, delectable…” he murmured, and my wordless query went unanswered as he stroked his fingers along my brows, “a beautiful shade of chestnut brown, and… a strand of silver, Watson!”  
  
“Well, thank you indeed for pointing that out to me, Holmes,” I said, caught between annoyance and yet more laughter at the incongruity of our situation.  
  
He kissed me briefly by way of apology. “I should tell you that the thought of seeing you with a head of silver–” he interrupted himself to card his fingers through my hair, peering behind my ears, “is undoubtedly… Yes, by Jove! Here is another,” he exclaimed.  
  
I felt a brief tug and tears sprang to my eyes. Holmes held his fingers pinched around a short hair – a silver hair.  
  
“Arousing,” he finished, drawing his tongue around the word obscenely.  
  
I smiled at him helplessly. “I shall endeavour to please you in this as well as all things, Holmes,” I said, “Though it may take me some years to accomplish.”  
  
His gaze flicked from the hair in his hand to my eyes, his expression quite indescribable. He placed the hair with meticulous care on the table next to his pipe. Next, he took my face between his hands and continued the kiss we had started on the sofa. We broke apart eventually, breathless for air. My knees had become less than dependable in supporting my weight. My heart was hammering in an alarming fashion – I felt a physical collapse might be imminent, yet I would not have stopped what we were doing if Inspector Lestrade himself had walked through the door. I breathed deeply and willed myself not to faint dead away.  
  
I had somehow rendered my friend mute, for he took my hand and led me towards his bedroom without further speech. He let go of my hand only to throw back the bedclothes, and then I was pushed gently down, with Holmes arranging his long limbs beside me.  
  
As in all our adventures together, Holmes took the lead, continuing to kiss me whilst his hands wandered over my form. He appeared to have a partiality for the hair on my chest – a brutish thatch that over the years had caused me some embarrassment, never more so than when I compared it to Holmes’ smooth expanse of skin. With his fingers constantly brushing through it, I began to understand that he found it appealing and thus I felt I could safely abandon my self-consciousness.  
  
Though my wits were sadly scattered, I retained enough of them to observe that, despite Holmes’ professed inexperience, he seemed well practiced in the art of lovemaking, at least in these early stages. It surprised me to the extent that I moved back to regard him curiously.  
  
Holmes propped himself up on one elbow, staring at me intently, his cheeks as flushed as if he had been caught in a blustery wind. “You are no doubt wondering at my level of expertise?”  
  
“I had thought you to be… innocent,” I ventured, hoping not to wound his pride.  
  
“Hah! Hardly that,” he smirked in response.  
  
“In matters of love, Holmes. You said so yourself, I’m certain!” I protested.  
  
“Watson, Watson – I said I had no knowledge of the fairer sex. And I confess I am at a loss on the subject of love, though I have some hopes that may perhaps change,” he stated.  
  
I stared at him. “Surely… both sexes?”  
  
“I did not say so,” said he, raising an eyebrow, “Though perhaps I misled you, dear boy.”  
  
He gave me a darting kiss, which I could only regard as an apology. I was dumbfounded.  
  
“Do you mean to say, that is… Holmes, have you bedded other men?”  
  
“Hmm, perhaps not the phrase I would have chosen.”  
  
“Holmes!”  
  
“Well, you see, I was disguised at all times; I restricted myself to such activities that did not require me to disrobe,” he said, gesturing down the length of his gloriously nude form.  
  
“I see,” I muttered, struggling to assimilate the new knowledge about my friend. The thought that other men had touched him, had kissed him, had ventured other acts with him… I felt a flush of heat rise over me, suffusing my neck and face.  
  
“Watson, you have turned an alarming shade. Are you disgusted with me?” he asked, a thread of unease in his voice. “I assure you I only indulged in such oral activities as took my fancy, nothing more intrusive, beyond some fondling, of course.”  
  
My imagination had suffered no ill effects from the gas explosion; it appeared to be in fine fettle as various visions of Holmes performing sundry sexual acts with anonymous men crossed it. I moaned with equal parts of arousal and vexation. I felt a sudden craving to claim what should have always been mine – I had known him longest, I had known him best!  
  
I pulled Holmes over the top of me, his weight presenting no challenge for my uninjured arm. He gasped in surprise when I anchored him in place between my legs by clamping my hands on his buttocks.  
  
“Dear man!” he cried softly, and once more met my lips with his own.  
  
He kissed me at length, then moved his mouth gradually downward. I could not say whether I was relieved or alarmed.  
  
“Holmes?”  
  
“Hush,” he whispered, between soft kisses around my nipples – I had never felt anything like it; a lover who took the dominant role whilst I lay back in glorious passivity.  
  
“I can claim some small accomplishment in this area,” he commented, lowering his mouth to my cockstand.  
  
“Oh!”  
  
After that I remember very little of detail and all of sensation. It was slickened heat, finely judged pressure, and a maddening vibration of sound; all enough to drive me to spend copiously as I had not done in years.  
  
I’m told that I did, in fact, faint dead away.  
  
\----------


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hmm.” Holmes eyes took on an intense glow as he walked all around me. “I don’t suppose you would consider doing this exercise without your shirt?” he asked in an offhand manner.

_“I am what you have made me. Take all the praise, take all the blame; take all the success, take all the failure; in short, take me.”_  
Charles Dickens

 

Part 10

  
My vision returned before my mind had made proper sense of my surroundings. My hearing lagged as well, and I saw Holmes leaning over me – inexplicably bare-chested, his mouth moving without a sound – gazing at me with deepest anxiety. I put my hand out and croaked, “Holmes.”  
  
As one my senses united and I heard his deep groan of relief. He briefly dropped his forehead to my chest.  
  
“Thank Heaven above! My word, you gave me quite the scare, Watson – I had thoughts that your  _little death_  had led to a rather large, and possibly permanent, one!” Holmes gave a short, ragged laugh.  
  
Our recent activities came back to my mind in a rush. I blushed. “I lost consciousness?” I asked.  
  
“Indeed,” Holmes confirmed. He smiled fondly at me, stroking my hair as if soothing a sick child.  
  
“That is embarrassing,” I said.  
  
“Not for me!” Holmes retorted, “Rather a compliment, as a matter of fact,” he added, managing a look that blended both chagrin and hubris.  
  
He rose from my side and I watched, bemused and fascinated, as he strode from the room. He was quite naked and I was treated to the sight of his physique in motion; his lean flanks and limbs showing every muscle flexing and contracting as he moved, feeding both my professional interest in human physiology and my appreciation of aesthetic forms. I was conscious of a foolish smile on my face when he returned, genitals swaying with his gait, holding a tumbler of spirits in his hand.  
  
“Drink this, old fellow,” he urged as he helped me to sit. My head swam slightly and I held on to him while I sipped at the brandy. I felt immediately better as the strong drink shocked me to alertness.  
  
“I’m really very sorry, Holmes,” I said, full of contrition for having alarmed him so on our first intimate encounter. I could not deny that I felt a perverse sense of well being, despite having fainted at the moment of climax. My mind might have been a trifle foggy, but every feeling of worry and torment had left me; I felt light in mind and heart as I had not felt in years. I knew that another foolish grin was stealing onto my face.  
  
“Nonsense, Watson. I should be the one to apologise to you – I should not have put you under such stress just a short time after you’d survived a traumatic accident.”  
  
“Hardly a stress, Holmes,” I said, my voice turning rough with a surge of emotion. “It was divine – I’ve never felt anything quite as pleasurable, I assure you.”  
  
Holmes’ cheeks warmed slightly, and delightfully. His eyelids dropped low as he regarded me. “Truly?”  
  
I suspected my voice might break in an unseemly fashion, so instead I nodded my head in confirmation, swallowing another mouthful of brandy while I gazed at him.  
  
“That is… gratifying,” he commented quietly, still studying me with half-closed eyes. “Still, I do not intend to repeat such an act for a few days yet; I do not trust my nerves to stand a repeat of your collapse.”  
  
“Holmes, that’s dastardly of you to say so! How can you deny me such pleasure having revealed to me your unique talent?”  
  
Witness, then, the very first time that I was to pout my lips at Sherlock Holmes. I have since discovered that doing so invariably gained me what I wished, except where it went contrary to what Holmes perceived as my own welfare. Alas, on this occasion he was not be moved, and it was indeed some days before we met in bed to indulge our carnal appetites once more.  
  
The first sign that Holmes might be relaxing his policy of abstinence was upon his return from a visit to consult Lestrade over a trifling matter concerning the theft of a pocketbook that had subsequently been ‘found’ by one the Irregulars. It was a matter of some diplomacy to keep the urchin from detention by the Police, but Holmes was a staunch supporter of these unfortunate boys, and I had no doubt that he would succeed in ensuring the child’s freedom. He had remarked upon such cases in the past: ‘Arrest him now and you have a gaolbird for life; allow him to walk free and he has the chance to reform and be a useful member of society.’  
  
Holmes entered the sitting room in his usual fashion, that of an unstoppable feature of nature. I was engaged in exercising my arm and shoulder, which had so far recovered nicely from the explosion several days previously. I had taken a doorstop and a paperweight of generous proportions and placed them in a small satchel to produce a makeshift barbell. I stood at the side of the dining table, holding the edge for stability whilst I lifted the satchel repeatedly to rebuild the muscles of my left arm. Holmes stopped dead when he saw me.  
  
“Watson, what  _are_  you doing?” he asked, looking me over with fascination. He dropped his gloves on the table and unwound his scarf.  
  
“Lifting a weight, Holmes. It helps to restore the weakened muscle,” I replied, continuing my activity. I was in shirtsleeves only, having exerted myself to the point where I was perspiring freely.  
  
“Hmm.” Holmes eyes took on an intense glow as he walked all around me. “I don’t suppose you would consider doing this exercise without your shirt?” he asked in an offhand manner.  
  
I was startled enough that I almost dropped the weight on my foot. My breath came gustily as I placed the satchel on the floor. Wordlessly, I began unbuttoning my shirt as my eyes kept darting up to observe Holmes’ fascinated gaze. I had no doubts concerning his desire for me – the glimmer in his eyes was every bit as intense as the reaction he had when a solution to a particularly knotty problem of investigation presented itself to him. I can only suppose that I had become such a solution to his investigation of sexual attraction and carnal desire. My self-consciousness forced me to drop my eyes as I parted my shirtfront to once more display my unfortunate hirsute torso, the only exception in the shape of my war wound scar; an unpleasant twist of silvered flesh where no hair would grow, though at least it looked its worse at the back of my shoulder where I did not have to see it daily.  
  
I folded my shirt and placed it on the table before I bent to retrieve my weight-filled satchel. I found myself blushing under Holmes’ regard as I recommenced my exercise, though it was likely unnoticeable as my exertions drew more perspiration from me. I flicked my eyes occasionally towards Holmes and noticed his lips slightly parted and his eyes quite wide. I had seen his own torso bared in exercise, of course, having bet on his bare-knuckled skills more than once, but it had been in the rough and tumble chaos of the boxing venue – and I had not allowed myself to react with any emotion beyond that of appreciation of the human machine in motion. Holmes was indeed a thing of beauty to watch and I was very much afraid that my own thickly built and scarred form simply didn’t hold up in comparison. I felt unworthy of his intense scrutiny, and what I could only identify as some admiration on his part. To my mind it defied all sense, and that in itself defied all I knew of Holmes.  
  
“You really have no notion of how truly beautiful you are, do you?”  
  
He had so clearly entered into my thoughts that for a moment I did imagine that he had spoken in my mind and not aloud. I dropped the satchel on the floor, fortunately missing both feet but making a loud thump on the carpeted floor. I stared at Holmes who was smiling crookedly at me from the settee. I did not think he was joking at my expense, yet–  
  
“I beg that you would not tease me so, Holmes!”  
  
“Watson, Watson…” he began in some exasperation, then he rose to come and stand behind me, “I do not tease you on this issue,” he continued, his hands creeping around my waist and his fingers fondling my stomach. “I give you my most sincere opinion; that you are a very–” He paused to kiss my neck, “beautiful–” Another kiss landed over my battle scarred shoulder, at which point my head refused to stay upright and tipped back to fall against his shoulder, “…man.”  
  
``````````````````````````````````````  
  
My Watson has attempted to finish his memoir on three separate occasions, and, having failed to do so to his exacting standards, he has appealed to me to conclude this account. He makes the observation that, in this case, his memories are rather disjointed and inaccurate; he has a tendency to rely on sensations of touch and sound once aroused to a certain point – sadly this results in some gross inaccuracies in his account of events (as an example; I have never been guilty of ‘purring’ whilst engaged in the Intimate Act).  
  
I remember exactly what occurred next as if it were yesterday, for it was the occasion of our first act of Intercourse. The reader will forgive my bald style of writing, I hope, for I have none of the gifts of language and metaphor that my dear Watson possesses. Oh, I may very well tease him, sometimes – in an uncertain mood, I may even lampoon the poor man (he has put up with all manner of verbal abuse I have directed at him in my selfish fits of depression) – but he has a definite gift for narrative that sometimes borders on the poetic. However, I digress.  
  
That evening was a pivotal moment in our long association. Though we had, so to speak, already crossed the Rubicon, we had yet to achieve that act of union that I had first spoken of on the fateful night preceding Watson’s merry excursion into a street-wide gas explosion. Though it seemed a long process at the time – the progress from almost-chaste kiss to full sexual congress – in truth it sped past in the blink of eye. The moment I witnessed Watson’s exercise upon returning from the Police Station that day I knew that I had to possess him, fully and completely. Though I had not participated in such an act before, I knew my subject well and had witnessed it often enough in the past when in the company of men possessing such tastes. I am, when all else is said and done, a voyeur by profession – and a very observant one.  
  
To pick up where the Master left off; I had insisted that Watson admit, as far as possible, to his own astounding physical attractions. I would never be able to convince him of his true beauty, for he is modest to an extraordinary extent; a personality quirk that has driven me to the point of frustrated tears on some days – for I believe that modesty is just as much a flaw of character as arrogant conceit. An underestimation of one’s abilities may lead to crises just as surely as an overestimation of one’s abilities. Again, I have digressed! This process of writing on personal matters has loosened the tongue of some inner fussy pedant… In truth, I don’t know how Watson has contrived to commit our little adventures to paper in such a succinct fashion. I shall make a note to praise his contributions to the torrid world of sensational literature more often.  
  
I rewarded Watson with a lingering kiss once he no longer protested my open admiration of his physique. He is a muscular specimen, in spite of the lingering effects of his war injury, and is diligent in keeping his shoulder mobile with upper body exercises such as the one I had interrupted. He has a generous covering of hair upon his chest and stomach; the sight of which fills me with unalloyed lust. I see he has already recorded my appreciation of his head of chestnut brown and its promise of silver to come (I am happy to report that the promise is in further evidence now); however he has not mentioned his eyes. Watson has the best blue eyes that a boy could ever have. They are offset by straight brows and long, lush brown lashes, and their colour is that of lapis. Have I digressed yet again? I no longer care. Having been handed this assignment, I will finish it as I see fit.  
  
After locking the sitting room door, I led Watson to my bedroom where I disrobed him and bade him lie down on my bed. He did this all very obediently, and all evidence pointed to his enthusiasm for the activity ahead. I removed my own clothes and retrieved a jar of Vaseline from my drawer. So that there would be no misunderstanding, I showed the jar to Watson, which elicited a blush and a nod of assent.  
  
“Turn over now, my dear,” I instructed.  
  
Watson then lay before me, ready for the plunder. I knew he had not done this before, so it was a matter of some importance to me that the experience be a positive one. To that end I spent an inordinate length of time preparing him – much longer than the mollies of my acquaintance might spend on their paramours. I listened for his lustful pleas and watched his hips move to meet my fingers, then decided that the time had finally arrived.  
  
One cannot adequately describe the pleasure of joining with one’s chosen mate; the word Pleasure itself is hardly large enough to hold the notion of such a perfect sensation, quite apart from its inability to evoke the emotion that fills one to overflowing at the point of union. Though we were to do the same thing often in the days that followed, and indeed become more proficient at the act, the first time was replete with meaning and significance for us both. The inevitable edge of fear that accompanied our loving that day gave our intimacy a poignant urgency.  
  
I held myself from climax by sheer force of will, wishing to see to Watson’s pleasure first. I was proud to see that I managed it well, and it was a relief to surrender to my body’s clamouring for crisis. I was very pleased not to have fainted; I may never have lived it down.  
  
Having committed these very private and personal details to paper – not to be published until we are both ashes on the wind – I now wish to draw a belated veil over the rest of the evening. There were soft caresses, and softer words, that need not be recorded here. There were shared cigarettes and, eventually, shared bedclothes.  
  
And we awoke as new men.

  
~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

  
 _The game is worthwhile insofar as we don’t know what will be the end._  
Michel Foucault  
  
~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~  
  
end


End file.
